The tale of a struggling pioneer of the 1830s is itself pioneering the future of reading.

THERE was a time, a desperate time, when I cursed the gentle mists of my native Oxfordshire and regretted its picturesque vales and folds.
Among the fruitful brown and green, a deceptive dip will conceal the approach of riders.
In truth, though, I would never have noted the danger, because my whole concentration lay in hacking at old Tom Bidwell with my sword.